


A Slavegirl's Tale

by SnowWhiteKnight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shakespeare, Based on Taming of A Shrew, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-07 21:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowWhiteKnight/pseuds/SnowWhiteKnight





	A Slavegirl's Tale

Sansa entered the tavern, the top half of her face covered as per usual. He was sitting at the bar, also as per usual. She smiled under her hood, which she was required to keep up at all times when out on errands. This man, the one constant in her life, he had never disappointed her. She approached the bar and ordered the usual for the master, two bottles of the barkeep’s finest Arbor Gold, plus some of the Dornish Red for the cook’s specialty dish. The master was going to have a special guest over this evening. She handed over three silver stags and turned to the large man next to her.

“My lord Hound,” she said with a grin. He turned to her, snarling and ready to bite her head off, the scars that covered half his face twisting horribly, then he was smiling and grinning.

“Oh, it’s you, girl. Picking up your master’s usual then?” he said in that gruff voice that sent shivers down her spine. She nodded. “You have your usual fee for me then?” Smiling wide, she nodded again.

She let him wrap his arms around her, let him pull her into the kiss. She shouldn’t let him, she belonged to the master, she was property, and this wonderful man was not her owner, but she couldn’t tell him no either. They had been at this game for too long. She had first kissed him on a dare, a challenge, _his_ challenge. She had been having a rough day, she was tired and irritated and didn’t want to put up with his meanness yet again, so in a moment of insanity, she had risen to his challenge. And she found herself liking it. So she kissed him again another night, of her own volition. And then again. And again. Every time she saw him now, she would kiss him as a “fee”. He promised that if she gave him enough kisses, he would buy her from her owner and make her his wife.

She didn’t believe him, of course. He was just a local drunk, and her owner was Joffrey Baratheon, the local magistrate and one of the wealthiest men in the region. He didn’t like selling off his slaves. Having a lot of slaves was a sign of wealth. Selling off your slaves meant you were in financial trouble. Master Baratheon was not about to sell a slave just because someone fell in love with said slave. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t play with the buyer. Master Baratheon was not a kind man. Sansa had been fortunate to have only received two whippings in the five years since he had bought her. The average slave usually received one a year. He called it, “going to the Lion’s Den”. If Sandor “The Hound” Clegane went to Master Baratheon and asked to buy her, he would likely become the butt of a cruel joke, and then be told that Sansa was not for sale. She had told him as much when he first mentioned it, but he had just smiled and told her to not worry about it. He was a kind man who kissed wonderfully. He didn’t deserve cruelty from Master Baratheon, so it was a good thing that he couldn’t really buy her.

Really, it was a good thing. That was what she told herself every time she had to leave him. She refused to think of what being his wife would be like. She knew little about his life, though he had somehow managed to find out everything about her. He said he liked the sound of her voice. That was the other part of her “fee”. She had to tell him either something about herself, or about her day. She didn’t mind that either. It was nice to have someone want to listen, though she wished he would tell her more about himself. He would always smile that gentle smile and tell her “maybe next time.” Sometimes he did tell her things (his favorite color was the blue of her eyes, and his grandfather was a kennelmaster so he had grown up with dogs), and sometimes he didn’t.

“You best be going, girl,” he whispered to her, slightly breathless. “Your master will be missing you if you take any longer.”

“Doubtful, but the cook will be upset. We’re to have a special guest tonight, and she’s cooking up a feast. Needs the Dornish Red for it.”

He smiled, “Oh? Well, have fun then. Off you go.” He swatted her behind playfully. She gave him a stern look that quickly devolved to a smile. The barkeep chuckled and handed her a basket with the three bottles in it. She gave Sandor one last look before leaving. Yes, it was good that he wasn’t able to buy her. He was probably only good at kissing and would make a terrible husband.

**********

He was here. Sansa stood behind the curtain that separated the dining room from the hallway that led to the kitchen. He was here! Sandor was the special guest for whom the feast was prepared for! The feast she had helped tirelessly with, the feast she had scrubbed pots and pans for, the feast she had helped set up the dining room for, down to the last pillow to sit on. He was here, and he was...laying down on the pillows? She looked as closely as she dared. He was wearing some odd clothing. Well, odd for him, normal for nobles like Master Baratheon. Plus, he was asleep, from the looks of it. She heard a sigh from next to her. She turned her head and looked down to see Master Tyrion Lannister. He hated being called that, and ordered all the slaves to just call him Tyrion.

“Looks like he ignored my advice and is going ahead with this charade,” Tyrion said mournfully. He sighed again.

“What charade?” Sansa asked fearfully. Tyrion was the much nicer uncle to her master. She suspected it was because he was a dwarf and was often subjected to the same scorn as the slaves. His other uncle was nice as well, though she did not see Master Jaime very often. Tyrion lived in the house and acted as an advisor to Master Baratheon, at Master Robert’s and Mistress Cersei’s request.

“This poor fool came in a week ago, requesting to buy one of Joffrey’s slaves. He was willing to pay double, even triple what the girl was worth. I _advised_ Joffrey that it was a good idea to go ahead and sell the girl, but he told the man to come back today. He had him ambushed before he got to the gates, drugged him unconscious and then washed and dressed in noble robes. He plans on telling him that he is the lord of this house, that he is Magistrate Joffrey Baratheon, and letting him live as such for three days. Then, he will drug him again and leave him in the streets. All as a _good joke,”_ Tyrion said in disgust.

“No…” Sansa whispered, staring at the man she loved. “Who was he asking for?” She knew, but she needed to know how much Tyrion and Joffrey knew. She had never told Sandor her name, so he had called her “little bird” or “girl” instead. She had never mentioned who her master was either, but the barkeep knew that information and he and Sandor had seemed friendly enough. It would only have taken one question.

“He didn’t know her name. Said he met her in the market. All he knows of her is that she has a sweet voice to match her disposition and eyes as blue as the sky. Honestly, it was obvious that he didn’t want her for a slave, and he seems like a decent enough chap, if a little rough. I’d even wager that he wanted her for his wi--” It was then that Tyrion had turned to look up at her, to stare at her eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned. Should have known, I suppose.”

“Please don’t tell Master Baratheon,” she pleaded. “You know he’ll just do something to make this worse.”

“Never fear, my dear. I wouldn’t dream of it. He probably won’t figure it out on his own either. He’s already forgotten the man’s name. However...this is going to make the next part even more awkward.” Tyrion grimaced as Joffrey strode over to them.

“Ah, the redhead slave, good. Go with my uncle and get ready. He’ll explain everything.” He grasped her chin roughly. “Follow your instructions and do not deviate, or else you will find yourself in the Lion’s Den. Got that?”

She nodded her head vigorously, trying to not cry. “Yes, Master Baratheon.” He let her go with that perfect, mean smile plastered on his face. Tyrion took her hand and led her away.

**********

“You’re to pretend that you are wife to Magistrate Baratheon, and that he is the magistrate. You know how to act, but don’t feel too flustered if you should make a mistake. Sandor Clegane is not a noble by any means, and won’t know the difference,” Tyrion was saying. She nodded, listening with dread. She had been _treated_ to a scented bath and oils, then dressed as a noblewoman. The heavy silks felt foreign on her body and she missed her simple cotton clothes. “He is a wealthy enough man, but he is often gone on trips without much warning to his house, and he only has two servants, a valet and a cook, who are used to this and won’t miss him.” Tyrion paused and looked at her. “I am so sorry, Sansa. By all accounts, he would have made a decent husband to you. It was just bad luck that you are owned by a mean cunt of a master.” She nodded and wiped away her tears.

“There’s nothing to do about it. A slave must not dream above their station. What else do I need to know?” she asked bitterly. Tyrion patted her hand before continuing.

“All of the slaves and servants such as myself have been ordered to treat him as they would Joffrey. Joffrey will be hiding among the servants to watch his _joke_ play out. Be aware of that. Alright, let’s get you to the dining room. Cook will have the food laid out by now, and your ‘husband’ should be waking up soon.” He sighed. “It’s too bad he isn’t a noble. You really are suited to this life,” Tyrion said, looking her over. She nodded and rose gracefully. _At least I finally get to use the lessons Mother taught me all those years ago,_ she thought sadly.

**********

“My lord?” said a gentle voice. _Her_ voice. He would recognize it anywhere. “My lord? Are you alright?” she asked, shaking him awake. He opened his eyes. In front of him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Hair like fire, done up simply with an elegant silver hair net over it, and eyes as blue as the sky. Eyes that he recognized as well. His little bird. He had never seen her full face before, since she always wore that slave mask. She was wearing a thin, translucent scarf over her mouth, but it was easy to see how beautiful she truly was. He had assumed she had a scar or grotesque feature that her master covered up so as not to offend the general public. Now he knew it was to discourage people from trying to steal her. She was looking at him with concern. He looked down, taking her all in. He was startled to see her in clothing worth more than what he offered for her to her master.

“Did I fall asleep?” he asked. His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

“Yes, my lord. Are you feeling unwell? We can retire to the bedchamber if you wish.” She blushed prettily at the suggestion. “Though, I would urge you to rest, and not try, um, _anything_ else.” She blushed furiously as she said it. He really wanted to know what “anything else” was in her mind.

He looked around the room. It was grossly ornate in decoration, screaming of wealth. It was the complete opposite of his own tastes and he didn’t think he had ever been here before. “Where are we?”

She gave him a confused look. “I beg pardon, what do you mean?”

“I don’t recognize this room. Where are we?”

“We’re in our home, my lord. This is our dining room. We eat dinner here on special occasions only. I also had it rearranged recently, so maybe that is why you do not recognize it?” She sipped from her goblet nervously. “I can change it back tomorrow, if you prefer.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I just...we live here?” he asked.

“Of course. Where else would the magistrate live?”

“The magistrate? You don’t mean _me?”_ He was more than a little sure that this was a joke. His little bird had warned him of this.

“Yes, you are Magistrate Joffrey Baratheon. You live here, dispensing justice to the people and settling disputes. I am your wife, Alayne. Do you really not remember me?” she asked sadly.

He pulled her across his lap, ignoring the gasps of the servants present and kissed her roughly. She responded immediately, just as she did in the tavern. Yes, this was no dream, his little bird was in his arms and that cunt of a magistrate was trying to make a fool of him. Sandor Clegane was many things, but he was no fool. “I could never forget you, little bird,” he rasped in her ear. She looked up at him in amazement and wonder. “I will play along, for now, but I’m not leaving this place without you at my side. Tell the servants we will retire to the bedchamber. I am sick, and need to lie down. My _wife_ will tend to me, won’t she?”

She nodded happily and dispensed the orders. A blond servant that looked suspiciously like the magistrate he was suppose to be was scowling in the corner. _Good. Just try something. I dare you._ He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Come, my lord. There will be some food waiting for us, and I have ordered the rest of it to be given to the rest of the servants. There is certainly more than enough for them.” She looked at the amount of food before them in slight disgust. He had to agree. There was enough food to feed a small army and only the two of them were present to partake. “Let us go.”

**********

The bedchamber was actually modest. His little bird whispered to him that it was a guest bedchamber. The master bedchamber was much more elaborate and the real magistrate had not been willing to give it up. Sandor couldn’t bring himself to want to go to that one. She helped him change from the clothing he had been put into and into a silk robe. She disappeared behind a folding screen and emerged in a silk shift.

“I could have helped you,” he said.

She blushed furiously, spreading all the way down her her neck. “I did not think that wise. If you had wanted to do, um, anything a husband and wife do, I would not have stopped you.”

“We are husband and wife, for all intents and purposes,” he pointed out, laying down on the plush bed. She joined him, still shy.

“Yes, but…”

He sighed. “I know. What do you know of his plan?”

She snuggled against his side, the thin sheet pulled up over them. The night was cool enough to not need more than that. “He will expect you to fulfill his role as magistrate, and fail miserably. On the third day, you will be drugged again and left out on the streets.” She lowered her eyes. “I am so sorry, Sandor. I didn’t think you would really try to buy me, or else I would have pushed you away. I never wanted this to happen to you. My master is not a kind--”

“Shush, little bird. So he tries to make a fool out of me. So what? As long as I get you in the end, it will be worth every fucking humiliation. Now, tell me, who do I need to worry about in this place? And who’s likely to help me?” She started listing off the various servants and a plan began to form in his mind.

**********

Sandor sat uncomfortably in the magistrate’s seat. It was made for a much smaller man, and he felt like his ass was being squeezed by a vise. His “wife” sat to his left, his advisor Tyrion to his right. She had told him it was Tyrion’s idea to give her a false name, since most of the people who came to see that magistrate knew her as Sansa. His little bird had covered her face again, for the same reason, but this time it was in a noblewoman’s garb, not a slave’s, and it was the bottom half of her face. She would whisper to him details of the people who came before him. Tyrion would discuss with him the details of each case, but ultimately, the decision of what to do was up to Sandor. He could see the blond cunt in the back of the room, watching intently and sniggering every time Sandor made a mistake, though he was a quick learner and never made the same mistake twice. As for his decisions for the cases presented to him, he did the best he could and earned smiles from his little bird, and reserved appreciation from Tyrion. The smallfolk seemed pleased by his efforts as well. That made the blond cunt scowl more, which made Sandor chuckle, but he kept that to himself and didn’t let him see that. The first day gone, he lay in bed with his little bird again. She was kissing him. Only the gods knew why, but she loved kissing him. He wasn’t about to argue with her about it.

“I told Tyrion that I knew what was going on,” he told her. He had surprised the smaller man, but they had quickly taken the conversation to a place the real Joffrey wouldn’t hear them. “We’re working on a plan to outsmart the magistrate.”

A knock on the door interrupted further talk. Sansa went to open the door and a flood of people entered, the blond cunt at the head of the group, Tyrion bringing up the rear and looking very disgruntled. “My lord,” the blond cunt cried merrily. “Did you forget? It is time for the weekly household storytelling.”

“Weekly... household... storytelling...?” Sandor asked in a voice of disbelief.

“Yes, my lord,” Tyrion said, irritated. “Every week, we gather here in your bedchambers, _for some reason,_ and we share stories. This week, it is apparently your turn.”

He felt his skin grow cold, despite the warm night air. He had never been very good at storytelling, but he didn’t want to lose to this fucking cunt either. He tried to think of a good story that didn’t involve bloodshed.

“My lord husband is still feeling unwell from yesterday,” his little bird said. “My turn is next week, is it not?”

The blond cunt was about to object when Tyrion stepped in. “Yes, my lady, it is.”

“Then let he and I trade turns. Surely no one would have any objections to that.” What was his little bird up to? And was this seriously something they did every week?

The blond cunt was outvoted on the change. The various servants and slaves seemed eager to hear his little bird say her story. He could only assume she was well liked as a story teller.

“Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying... nothing,” she said, as the candles around the room were extinguished until only two remained in front of her. “Our story begins on the eve of the Feast of the Maiden in the far off land of Westeros, when Lord Jaime meets Lord Podrick, newly arrived to the city of Winterfell…”


End file.
